


Years and Tears That Never Were

by phantomzone08



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Drunken Confessions, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Roller Coaster, Emotionally Repressed, Enemies to Friends, Family Issues, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, I'm Sorry, Jim Has Issues, Jim needs sleep, Jim won't deal with all the bad stuff that's happened to him, Men Crying, Mental Anguish, Mentions Court of Owls events, Mentions of everything Jervis did to Jim, Near Death Experiences, Not Canon Compliant, Oswald Has a Heart, Oswald breaks into Jim's house, Oswald tries, Sort Of, Tears, i wrote this as therapy, not totally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-10-24 05:51:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17698856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomzone08/pseuds/phantomzone08
Summary: Jim doesn't let his emotions rule him,  he knows he's a ticking bomb and can't afford to let go of his control or he might go off.  He might become another Barnes, might forget who he is.Everyone has a breaking point though and it's the summons to a memorial that makes it all crash in on him.Jim thinks he's safe to break just a little in his own home,  confined in his walls,  and that would be true... if Penguin was not audacious enough to break into his apartment.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is season 4, episode two, but before Jim tries to talk to Falcone. Like, if there was a nice span of time where Jim let things go and took some time to think before acting on a really bad idea. 
> 
> I wrote this for myself as a way to get past my own recent experience with this kind of travel dread, had a breakdown before going to see family.

Jim Gordon dragged his feet every step he took,  dread a heavy stone around his neck.  He went through the motions,  locked the door,  and put his keys on the counter.  He pretended to look through his mail, staring blankly at the white envelopes, incomprehensible words blurting in his vision as he didn't bother reading anything.  All he did was stare for at least five minutes before getting around to putting the bundle down. 

It was all nothing better than stalling, staving off going to his pitiful bedroom to confront what was waiting for him there.  Going in there was inevitable,  and so was facing what was coming,  but he still found ways to stall himself. 

Getting himself a drink was one of those things,  only then,  he couldn't bring himself to drink it. There was an awful itch under his skin,  ants and bugs crawling just under his epidermis,  scurrying around like mad all over his arms and legs.  Drinking would either help or make it much worse. Starring into the amber liquid, he finally decided to risk it and downed the glass in one go.  He repeated that process three more times before he trudged down the dark hallways. 

There was no personality to his apartment.  He never hung pictures.  There was never much in the way of bobbles or memorabilia lining his shelves.  He had a few things,  sentimental items, gifts from people he couldn't ever bring himself to get rid of no matter how many times he moved.  As far as valuables,  he didn't have much anyone would want to steal.  In Gotham,  that was for the best. 

He opened the door to his room the way most people approached a bomb and stopped on the threshold,  feet so heavy.  Eventually,  with more effort than should have been necessary,  he walked to the closet to select a dress shirt and matching pants. 

A week or two had passed since his mother called,  telling him he needed to come back for a few days. 

It's only a two-day ordeal.  Someone in the family decided to hold a memorial type event to celebrate the lives of both Peter and Frank Gordon on the anniversary of Pete's death.  Things being what they were, the distant family hadn't even known about Frank's death until recently.  The Court of Owls originally kept it rather quiet,  and since he had infiltrated them at the time,  Jim could not exactly do much about that. 

Because of that,  they wanted to hold something now and they were traveling in for it.  It would not be held in Gotham as few in the family had any desire to be anywhere in the city,  however,  it was taking place only a short distance over the Bridge. 

He could not very well say no.  Harvey desperately wanted him to take time off anyway to keep the rest of the precinct from giving him another beating or killing him.  The city was "safe" now and most of the department liked it that way. 

Most weren't even opposed to the idea of being on Penguin's payroll.  Even if only in secret,  under the table. 

Jim walked into Arkham and fought off dozens of inmates on his own. Even Harvey had drawn his line, which hurt far more than Jim would admit.  The city was probably more corrupt now then they had been when he moved back so long ago. 

But crime was down.  Crime was under control. Clearly.  Gotham was safe under the Pax Penguina. No one wanted Jim Gordon to mess that up,  not even Harvey, their acting captain. 

There was no excuse not to go to the memorial.  Harvey wanted him to go, "at least take the time off" even if he offered to cover for Jim and say he made him work. "Just go,  unwind,  you need it,  buddy!"

He starred at the half packed suitcase for an inordinate amount of time, listless,  void of emotion.  When he picked up the dress pants,  folding them neatly,  ready to put it inside,  that was when the emptiness decided to go away.  Suddenly,  everything was rage,  indignation,  rebellion,  and more rage. 

He didn't want to go! He did not want to go.  It was horrible and selfish,  and he knew that only too well.  Even so,  he did not want to go. He did not want to hear them all talk about how much they missed them.  He would face down the whole of Gotham's syndicate with one bullet to his name with less trepidation than his upcoming trip. 

He couldn't handle going but he couldn't get out of going either, no matter how many times Harvey said; "if you hate going so bad,  Jim,  just don't go! Tell them something came up,  it's an emergency,  so you can't make it."

Harvey was a good friend, even now,  after everything. But he did not understand the finer points of obligation,  the part of it that drove Jim to do things because of duty alone,  and only for the sake of duty, because it was right. Doing things not because he could get something out of it or couldn't get away with something, but just because it had to be done by someone at some point, so he inevitably stepped up and volunteered.  He couldn't remember not having that drive in him. 

Survivors Guilt,  someone told him once. 

He survived a car crash.  He survived the army.  He survived Gotham when so very many people fell around him.  He survived,  so clearly he had to make up for every single life lost,  all the candles snuffed out, by burning brighter himself and burning from both ends. 

But he did not want to go.  It was horrible, it was wrong not to want to go to visit what was left of his own family.  That did not make that knot in his chest go away and it did not magically make him want to go. 

To some extent, he did not want to stay either.  Part of him wanted to run away from all of it, everything! He'd done it once,  handed in his badge, so he could do it again.  Over half the force would cheer for that. 

Jim set his pants into the suitcase methodically, trying to stave off the urge bubbling up inside him so forcefully.  He did not succeed. 

With a shriek of rage he'd been holding off a very long time,  he grabbed the case and threw it across the room where it slammed into the wall by the door with a loud bang.  That only spurred him on to do it again several more times before he decided he might as well do an impromptu,  sudden reorganization of the contents of his closet,  decorating his room with clothing.

While he was aware that it would only make things worse,  give him a mess to clean up in addition to packing.  Even so,  he could not stop,  it felt like a hurricane was swirling inside him and it needed to destroy something or it might never go away.  Throwing his clothing seemed like the least damaging thing he could do.  The table tipped over in the chaos,  shattering the lamp he kept there,  which only gave him another reason to roar in anger. 

Breaking something though,  apparently broke the spell,  deflated him until he sank to the floor and propped himself up against his bed. 

It was a considerable shock when his bedroom door flew open without any hint of warning to reveal one panicked looking Penguin, though immaculately dressed as always. Wide green eyes took in the detective and the state of the room,  handgun drawn and ready. 

His state of mind must have been particularly apathetic towards his own well-being as Jim only starred up at the mobster passively, "Great timing! Being dead is a considerably acceptable excuse not to go on a trip."

Oswald blinked at him,  utterly confused,  totally baffled and out of his depth.  He did,  however,  take clear note of the suitcase overturned near his shiny black shoes.

"They can celebrate three Gordon's then," Jim continued his thought, "rather than two."

Those wide eyes swimming with bewilderment were so noteworthy Jim almost wanted to immortalize it with a picture. "Excuse me," Oswald snapped, "but what in all the holy hell is going on in here?"

Something suddenly occurred to Jim,  and those drinks must have been catching up with him if he just noticed the obvious, "Did you just break into my house?"

"James!" Oswald used that dangerous,  warning tone he wielded with the accuracy that had most people jumping to fall into line, "What happened?"

Jim took a cursory look around him at the mess, "I was packing."

"Packing?" Oswald parroted back,  but with dripping condescension so palpable it bled into the forced smile the man put on. 

He had seen that smile and heard that angry,  sardonic tone a lot lately and he was not a fan of it. "Yeah.  But I don't want to pack."

Oswald shut his eyes, shoved his gun back in its hiding place and balled his fists, "Really?"

"Yeah."

The other man opened his eyes again, revealing the hidden fire burning there, "Let me get this straight? You, a grown man,  were throwing a temper tantrum,  and that was what all that noise was?" His jaw clenched hard and he flapped his arms in typical Oswald fashion,  his voice getting pitchy with fury, "I thought you were being murdered in here!"

Jim let out a dark chuckle, "That why you broke in? Didn't want someone else to beat you to the punch?"

Oswald did not bother with words,  he only snarled in reply,  teeth bared and clenched. 

"If you want,  my gun is in the top right drawer in the dresser," Jim slurred a few words in there, "It's probably easier for you. You could just say I shot myself and no one would look at you for it,  probably; least not just you since I've got a long list of candidates wanting me dead. Just leave a watch or a metronome here and they'll think it was a Tetch thing." He offered helpfully, "That sounds like your sly style. Unless I'm next on the list to get brain cancer asking to be frozen and be another centerpiece at the club."

Oswald made a face at him, crinkling his eyes and pointed nose, "Very funny,  James!  Your sense of humor is maudlin and uninspiring at the best of times but  fortunately, I didn't come here tonight for your wit!" He was still furious. 

"Why did you come then? To help me pack?" Jim asked,  leaning his head against the bed to make it easier to stare at Penguin. 

"As a matter of fact, no, I did not!" He was using the patronizing tone again, "I came here in the vain hope that we could talk over our differences like mature, reasonable adults even if that hope was clearly to no avail whatsoever as you are a philistine in more than fashion! Fighting and bickering never gets either of us anywhere, and if you haven't noticed through our history,  we both do exponentially better when we work _together_. Gotham, in general, does better when we're not at odds,  however long we manage not to be at each other, though you'd never admit that." 

The curiosity got to Penguin though, slipped in past the anger, and in the end, he asked, "Where exactly are you going anyway?"

Jim's posture hunched and shrank inward at the question, and the other's sharp eyes latched onto the tell of insecurity. 

"I take it that you are not keen on the venue of this sudden vacation." He tilted his head,  eyes searching, avian the way he usually was. "Don't tell me Harvey finally found his backbone and forced you to take time off after your recent debacle? I didn't think he could make you do anything, even with his elevated rank!"

Jim shook his head, a sick sort of smile finding it's way to his lips, "Harvey isn't making me," it was a little harder than usual to enunciate but he managed to get his tongue in order, "though he's only too happy to see me out of Gotham."

"Out of Gotham?" Oswald sounded startled, even worried,  though he covered it in pompous, haughty bravado, "I assume you don't mean permanently, James. I trust you to be more stubborn than that, of course. After all,  whatever would any of us do without your incessant,  boy scout nagging?"

Maybe Jim needed to drink more often around the gangster to be so easily able to read him and his moods.  It was interesting to know he was worried Jim might have thrown in the towel.  Some part of him wondered who Oswald would have left at this point. 

"It's almost the anniversary of my father's death," Jim told him, oddly compelled to reassure the other that getting rid of him permanently was not as easy as that, "and since a lot of the family couldn't make it to Uncle Frank's funeral... they decided to have something like a memorial. Celebrate them both in one go."

Oswald's eyes widened,  the guarded nature of his look dropping,  falling away, exposing the younger Oswald that used to mean it when he called them old friends. "Oh. I see." 

That prompted the man to look around at the mess again,  seemingly with new eyes,  something like dawning realization sliding over his face and through his entire posture. 

While Jim was positive the great Penguin kept an extensive file on him the way he surely did with all his enemies,  complete with notable dates or events,  the Pax Penguina had kept him rather occupied of late.  He had likely lost track of the coming anniversary,  not even noting it as a time to strike when Jim might be emotional. Or... a time to cut him more slack. 

"I don't want to go," Jim confessed a little helplessly. 

The usual tightness of Penguin's expression melted further into something much softer. 

"I don't want to go there and look them in the eye when I know... I know things they don't. I don't want to hear them speculate about why it happened. Whatever they believe, I know it's wrong. I know they're going to ask me questions I don't want to answer about Frank's state of mind,  what we talked about.  They're going to want to pick my brain to help them understand why he took his own life... and the funny thing is,  I've got all their answers but I can't tell them anything."

"Sometimes we... have to keep secrets from those we love in order to protect them." Oswald offered gently and Jim knew he was thinking of his own mother. 

"My family was full of secrets.  Secrets and more secrets." He starred at his fingernails a second before he said something he knew was foolish, " It wasn't an accident,  you know.  The Court of Owls hired Michael Ness to act like a drunk driver in order to commit vehicular manslaughter and cover the hit. My father was a member but he realized they weren't acting on behalf of Gotham and he was trying to take them down from the inside,  together with my uncle. They figured him out."

Oswald's eyes widened that much more,  comically expressive in his shock. 

"I joined them too,  pretended I was on their side,  pretended I didn't know they were responsible. I put on the mask and I pretended I agreed with them. As if I would ever forgive them for that night,  sitting there in that car,  crushed in on all sides,  blood everywhere,  watching my father die slowly, his skin getting gray the more blood he lost, wondering if I was going to die too.  Like I'd forgive the nights my mother cried herself to sleep and..." He cut himself off,  not letting the rest fall out. 

Oswald lost his mother.  He could not tell him about the days, about his mother drinking herself into oblivion so she forgot to pick him up from the hospital, or from school every day.  He could not tell someone that no longer had a mother that he dreaded seeing his own,  could never wait to be as far away from her as possible.  Oswald would give anything to see his mother and Jim would do anything to avoid his.  He avoided her because she had never looked him in the face since they pulled him out of the car. 

Oswald did not need to hear how she never forgave him for living in her beloved Peter's place.  She could have had another child,  she drunkenly told him once,  but she could not replace her husband. Though Jim looked just like his father,  everyone said so,  and she hated him more for that. 

Jim moved out and joined the military when he was seventeen and she drunkenly kissed him like a lover when he came home,  calling him Peter.  He'd nerve stayed under the same roof with her again.  But now,  with very little contact beyond Christmas cards between them for years,  she called. 

It's a little pathetic that he, a grown man,  still jumps to action at his mother's command.  Like a dog.  After everything,  all the imposed distance,  the resentment,  the anger,  he still can't bring himself to do anything that might upset her.  He's still trying to earn her forgiveness for surviving. 

Jim can't stop the helpless laughter that bubbles up,  subtle at first,  but soon turning hysterical. 

"How much have you had to drink, Jim?" And there,  he'd dropped the 'James'.

"No idea." He said blithely. 

Oswald leaned his shoulder against the door frame,  no doubt trying to take pressure off his bad leg. "You paid them back for what they took from you. That counts for a lot,  you know."

"Not really. I failed to do most of what I intended to... my uncle died to give me a chance to stop them, and I failed. They sent him to kill me that day, wanted us to fight; only one of us could survive and have that seat.  He told me he thought I could do it, finish what he and my father couldn't..." Jim put his fingers to his own temple,  remembering the last things Frank said to him, "I wouldn't have let him,  but he... just did it before I could stop him. To save me."

"Oh! Oh,  Jim... I-I didn't, I had no idea..." Oswald babbled a little,  taken by surprise, likely by the unexpected honesty, understanding without Jim spelling it out.  

"Lee tried to get Harvey to call it a homicide,  she believe I did it.  She wasn't totally wrong."

It wasn't the Penguin in the room anymore,  nothing left of him,  now it was simply Oswald, "Jim,  no,  that's-"

"She also buried me alive in a casket in the woods with a walkie, a flashlight, and the virus in my pocket as the only way to survive.  So there is that."

Oswald gaped, "That's... how you were..."

Jim nodded, "I wasn't going to take it. I didn't want to turn into Barnes... but then I realized where the bomb was and I thought I could actually stop it.  But I didn't,  of course,  stop it."

"I always assumed you were infected by the bomb, that you contracted it there, once I found out you had it. But it was...really..."

"Pine box.  She said I could either take the virus or let it be my final resting place." Jim started laughing again, "Which is funny! She should never have banked on me taking the virus after Barnes had to chain me up just to keep me from killing myself when Tetch was around."

The sheer horror on Oswald's face made him laugh harder, "That is not humorous!"

"Of course it is.  It's called irony,  or something like that." Jim countered smugly. 

"Jim..." Oswald closed his eyes,  clearly exasperated beyond what he could stand. "Speaking as someone who's been subject to my share of death traps, I know they aren't ever particularly amusing. Especially not when you were put there by someone you thought you could trust."

He knew who they were talking about now too. Edward Nygma, the man that once was both their friend, but now was neither of their friends. The sweet kid with glasses and a crush died when the Riddler was born, he'd known that for certain that day in the snow, staring into those crazed eyes past the barrel of a gun. There was nothing left of the real Ed, Jim had seen that more than once, and wished desperately he'd been able to save that innocent kid before any of it went to hell. Jim had no love at all for Riddler.

"I tried to tell you about him. I trusted him once too,  went to him for help because I thought..." Jim shook his head smirking, "I got electrocuted."

There is a little more Penguin in him now,  stiffer posture and darker expression, "He's cost us both a great deal at this point, I suppose." He said with a sniff. 

Oswald had never once brought it up,  never prodded the wound,  never tried to use it.  Even so,  Jim knew the mobster knew what happened to the baby.  He had been the first to know about it besides Jim himself the night Lee made her hasty confession. He could have used it many times,  used it to cut,  but he never did,  even avoided going near potentially related topics.  It was a kindness, a conscious choice. 

"I saw you,  you know.  When Tetch drugged me with the Red Queen, while I was dying, I had hallucinations. You were in one of them.  You and I were on the front together,  bullets flying. I couldn't get out of the way of the bullets, I was pinned.  You tackled me to the side,  behind some cover."

The keen interest was piqued in those expressive eyes, "Then what happened?"

Jim instantly wished he'd never brought it up,  not drunk enough for it since he was good at holding his drink,  and he wished he could take it back,  didn't want to tell anyone what Oswald said as he knew what it meant, "I don't know,  it's fuzzy now.  It was either the car crash or everyone at the GCPD dying." He didn't want to tell him about Bruce either. 

His tongue got freer when he drank but not so free as to admit certain secrets.  Not unless he was drunk out of his mind. 

He didn't look at the man as he got to his feet,  shaky and unsteady,  pushing past him to head for the kitchen.  It took a few minutes of fruitlessly searching around the cupboard before he remembered he never put the bottle away,  just left it on a different counter. He served himself a few fingers worth and started to drink it before a hand settled on his arm. 

The voice was gentle, soothing, "How about we make you some coffee instead?"

"I don't want coffee, " he replied petulantly. 

Oswald didn't fight him further,  just watched him down the glass and set it down almost hard enough to crack it.  Something disconnected in his mind made him pour out another glass and slide it over to his guest to be polite. Jim then headed for his couch,  suddenly too tired to think of cleaning the mess he'd made in the bedroom.  Boneless,  he dropped onto the couch like he'd been thrown there. 

Oswald followed him but did not sit down,  again opting to lean against the door frame to study him, "When you said they could celebrate three Gordon's, did you really think I came here to kill you?"

Jim's eyes fell closed as he lolled his head back on the cushions, "Why not? You have every reason to.  I'm surprised you've never done it.  All these years,  all those chances you've had,  and you still haven't done it. You have no reason not to."

"You mean chances like right now? When your throat is barred and your eyes are closed?" Oswald laughed,  irony and irritation wrought through it, "Someone might mistake your current posture as trusting,  even though you just accused me of visiting you in order to murder you in your sorry excuse for a residence."

"I don't trust you." Jim stated easily,  catching the way Oswald's breath stuttered,  something like he'd been stung,  even after all the times Jim had rebuffed his friendship before, "But... I also trust you a lot. I know that doesn't make sense.  I've always trusted you,  gambled on being able to depend on you.  You betray me a lot,  but you also... don't.  You protect me and turn on me five times a day,  but you... you're there when I need you most,  loyal beyond reason on some things. I've never quite understood how your mind works."

"You mean, I keep your secrets,  like Galavan." Oswald almost never brought that up,  not in anything but the vaguest insinuations that could be interpreted multiple ways. 

"Yeah," Jim agreed,  trying not too fall asleep, "and you've never killed me.  Not even when I think you've wanted to, or when it would have been easier.  You've never done it. You never shot me and tossed my body into the river."

"Oh,  Jim,  my old friend," it was the words as well as the near jovial tone that made Jim open his eyes and look at the man, "you clearly don't understand.  There are few people in this world I wouldn't stab for cutting me off in traffic,  however,  if those select few ever do vex me enough for me to want to kill them,  it certainly would not end in some mundane way." Oswald was grinning at him almost playfully, "No, if I want you dead,  you will indeed be developing brain cancer and be placed in a prominent location at my club.  Though, I would unquestionably ensure you were wearing something far more tasteful than your usual, uninspiring wardrobe.  If I ever randomly ask you to put on a tux,  then you can worry."

Jim starred,  his mind whirling over too many different things and emotions. Guilt the predominant one.  He never understood why Oswald hasn't gone after him after Arkham with the same ferocity he had Fish.  He expected Penguin to come for him, to drive a blade into his flesh and bathe in his blood; Jim practically begged for it,  pushed the other man for it on multiple occasions to feed the same exact need Jervis later tapped into.

It didn't make sense that the knife never fell.  Jim kept expecting it to for quite a while after he found himself out of prison. Then again,  somehow, Penguin and Fish made up in the end too. 

Oswald's smile turned sadder the longer he looked at the detective but the words remained playful. "I could never put you on display looking so drab."

That was apparently what it took to break Jim Gordon, shatter him into pieces.  The laughter punched it's way out of his chest and rolled over him like a truck.  It's was funny,  but not so funny that his whole body should be shaking with the force.  He folded over,  draped over his own legs to bring him close to the right position in case he started to hyperventilate. When that did not help,  he let himself tip over and rest his forehead on the arm of the couch in surrender. 

He could not stop the laughter and it began to sound frantic, manic, or maybe panicked.  It was not long before his chest hurt and His head swam. His eyes were watering and they would soon spill over judging by just how much was welling at the waterline. It was then that the couch dipped beside him and a hand began to run tender circles over his shoulders. 

"Shhhhh, you're alright," Oswald whispered to him. 

The laughter hitched,  morphing into something more like desperate sobs until his eyelids lost the battle against the rising salt water to let those traitorous tears spill from his eyes.  It was then when Oswald tugged Jim over to rest his head on a bony,  expensively clad shoulder. 

Oswald always had been rather free,  even liberal with his physical shows.  He never shied away from touching people. It was a trait Jim sometimes wondered if he picked up from being around the mob so much. 

There was so much clouding Jim's mind,  so many regrets,  so many things he'd rather forget,  all of them vying for attention,  boiling to the surface like a volcano. 

He'd never cried.  Not about any of it.  Screamed,  ragged,  punched wherever was nearest,  but he never cried. Not even for the baby he never got to see. He shut everything down so well most of the time,  covering it over with copious amounts of anger exactly the way Lee had buried him under plenty of dirt. 

He never cried.  He never remembered seeing his father cry so he... Even now,  the tears felt like a betrayal to everything he was supposed to live up to.  Big boys weren't supposed to cry.  It wasn't allowed.  He would disappoint...

Those thoughts only made his sobs louder,  more impossible to hide. It was an ugly sound, broken and pitiful,  ragged,  offensive to the ears.  His body was shaking,  wracked with his weeping. 

He felt out of control,  vulnerable,  low,  and weak while he leaned against Oswald as the only solid thing to catch him.  The crying was so bad he felt himself drool,  felt a little snot coming out of his nose. A little drool,  though hopefully nothing else,  had made it onto that extensive suit jacket.

Swiping subtly and quickly at the spot,  hoping against all hope that Oswald had not noticed,  Jim pulled away.  He jumped to his feet and turned sharply so only his back would be visible to the other man as he tried to erase all evidence with his sleeve. His breathing was labored but it was calming with some concentrated effort to exert control again.  He had to get control back,  he could not fall apart. 

"Sorry." His voice sounded bad too,  like he'd gargled sand. 

"Do not apologize, Jim. I'm glad you actually let some of that out." There was a hand on his shoulder,  light pressure, "You hold it all in and build up those walls so high no one can touch you,  reach you.  You're human too,  you know, flesh and blood.  There's no shame in being made of flesh and bone rather than granite."

"Aren't we supposed to be rivals? You're not supposed to let your rival cry on your shoulder." Jim tried, still blinking the water away from his vision, "Isn't this bad for business?"

"We both know I break the rules,  and we're both a bit unconventional. I hardly think this sort of behavior between us is going to break anything now."

Jim drew in a shaking breath through his nose,  realizing he never pulled away from the slight pressure of fingers on his shoulder, "I..." he had no idea what he wanted to say. What came out was not planned,  nor was it even what he'd wanted to apologize for the most,  but he could not speak of that place,  of Strange. "I'm sorry about Fish, I never meant to kill her, I really didn't..."

The fingers tightened reflexively before easing. "I know. I remember that frightened,  confused look on your face when you dropped the knife.  You weren't even in your right mind.  It's a testament to your stubbornness that you didn't kill considerably more than Fish and a few ninjas. I wondered at the time how you managed to so easily eviscerate trained killers... but then,  of course, I found out."

"I'm sorry I haven't lived up to what you thought I'd be in the beginning.  I'm not the good man you used to think I was."

For a long while there was silence,  but eventually that quiet,  wise voice surfaced again, "None of us are perfect, old friend,  no matter how much we strive. You're still a good man. I would still be the first to say so,  even if we are usually at odds."

"You don't have to say that. We both know I'm... not.  You know better than most,  and you weren't wrong. I am a monster."

"You are not a monster, " Oswald shushed him, "You aren't prefect,  you aren't all good... but you try.  That's what really counts,  Jim.  It's why I came to talk. I know you've always rebuffed it when I've said it in the past,  but our interests aren't as different as you think,  and I _am_ your friend. Even if we are rivals at the end of each day."

Jim could have argued,  but instead, he allowed his tongue to stay silent in favor of wiping another tear away.  He should not have been crying like a fool,  particularly not in front of anyone,  adding insult to injury. It felt like shamefully distracting himself,  he'd been trained you control himself better. 

"As your friend,  not your rival... I want you to know that you can come to me, day or night.  If you need to talk.  You've suffered a great deal and you don't have to muddle through it alone."

For some reason,  that reminded him of Harvey even though Harvey would never have said it like Oswald.  Harvey would have taken him out for drinks and offered words like, "I'm here for you brother,  but you've gotta pull yourself together." His friends were very different from each other. But they were his friends all the same. 

"You suffered too,  and I had a hand in some of it." He didn't have to be specific,  they both knew all the answers to insinuated questions, "I don't exactly have the right."

"Friends help each other, regardless of circumstances. I never asked you to live up to my standards, I only asked you for your friendship."

Which,  of course,  Jim had always denied him. 

"Why don't you sit down a minute?" And that probably was a good idea considering he was still shaking just slightly. 

He simply allowed Oswald to maneuver him onto his couch,  even let him guide his body down flat to lie there like a log.  When he went to walk away,  Jim panicked and grasped his wrist in a silent plea.

"You need to rest,  Jim,  you're exhausted.  Things will look better if you just close your eyes for a little while."

Jim obediently closed his eyes,  could not have kept them open long anyway with the way they stung to be closed, but he could not bring himself to let go of the thin wrist.  His clinging made the stone cold mobster relent and sit on the edge on the couch.  When fingers softly began to work through his hair Jim was lost,  unconscious in nothing but a few minutes under the soothing sensation. 

When he woke,  it was to a pounding headache and a spinning room.  He did not even hesitate to down the pill and glass of water waiting on the table for him,  not so much as sparing a thought to the origin of the pill. 

Jim called the other man's name even though he doubted very much he was still there. The returning silence was confirmation enough,  and he let his head sag in silly disappointment.  He had not wanted to be alone with his own mind again,  worried he might simply break down again.  He should not want company for that though. 

When he nearly fell asleep sitting up,  he climbed to his feet,  determined to crawl into bed and sprawl over the top of his suits if needs be. Getting to his room and finding it clean,  bag immaculately packed,  and his clothes not only hung up but color coordinated was a bit of a shock. He crawled under the blankets anyway. 

Later,  before his trip,  he stopped in at Oswald's club for a drink,  hoping to see the man himself. 

Surprisingly,  Oswald not only found him but sat beside him at the bar, "I do hope you're not planning to drive if you're drinking that."

"Taxi." Jim told him simply. "I don't trust myself not to turn back otherwise."

"You'll be fine,  Jim. Think of them as suspects in a case you're investigating."

"I still don't want to go." Jim made the quite,  wicked confession again, one he'd only put into voice with the mobster. 

"I know." Oswald whispered back, a sympathetic downward curve to his lips, "But you're going to do it anyway.  That's how you are."

"You packed my suitcase," Jim said. 

Oswald shrugged, "What are friends for?"

Jim slid off the bar stool, surprised when it didn't squeak the way the ones he usually sat on would have, "Thank you for..." everything,  he should say. 

"Of course." Oswald allowed him to leave it hanging. 

"And I'm really sorry for..." again,  he couldn't bring forth the words to encompass enough of what he should apologize for. Words of apology were never his strongest aspect no matter how he sometimes wished they were. 

"You are a lot more verbose when drunk," Oswald observed with a smirk. 

Rather than muddle through words,  Jim stuck out his hand.  Oswald looked at it a second or two before he gripped it in return, shaking it gently,  unlike he had in front of all the cameras. 

"We should talk when I get back."

"Of course, Jim. We always have much to discuss." He raised his glass companionably, "You know where to find me, old friend."

There was a great deal they need to work out professionally,  and likely privately too.  He doubted the mobster could honestly have forgiven the past,  wondered sometimes if he was simply playing the long game of revenge,  but sometimes he believed Oswald to be genuine. 

Heaven only knew why Harvey or Oswald forgave him for living as he generally turned everything he touched to ash.  Lee certainly couldn't forgive him.  But then,  he'd killed the man that managed to put Lee back together when he'd broken her.  He was not sorry he'd killed what Mario became,  he was sorry he got a decent man turned into a monster. 

But Gotham turned everyone into a monster.  Maybe it was inevitable.  The Pax Penguina wouldn't solve that of course,  it would make it worse.  But maybe Penguin's motives were partially altruistic,  though never fully.  Still, maybe it was an honest effort,  misguided though it was. 

"See you around,  Oswald."

Jim was not yet back to himself.  He still felt like a scarf being pulled apart at both ends and seeing his family would only unravel him further.  However,  he did feel better, for now,  and he had a glimmer of hope that an accord could be reached.  If he unraveled a bit more when they spoke again,  at least Oswald was good at keeping his secrets. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is season 5 after Penguin Our Hero. It is not strictly canon, but it could be. I like to think, had this happened, things would have gone more smoothly between them. Oswald still would have marched in with guns for Jim's people and still would have gone out on the hunt for the bomber. They still would have argued about it, but maybe the edges would have been dulled. Or not, they are both a bit volatile.  
> But they really do make an amazing team when they aren't fighting. They could probably put the other gangs in their place and keep the people safe if they united fronts.  
> And seriously, for a change, Gotham, let Jim Gordon cry and have emotional breakdowns like normal people would in that situation.

Jim was resigned to it,  to this.  Whenever he would rather do anything besides think about someone,  rather forge ahead and never look back so he can hold onto his own sanity,  someone always suggests it. 

The last time it has been a call from his mother,  summoning him to a memorial for his uncle and father.  It was intended to offer closure,  he knew the reason behind it.  Such things were not really for the dead,  but for the living. 

This time it had been Lucius that suggested holding something of a memorial for all the lives lost,  for all the missing,  and even the injured of what once was Haven. 

It was too calm the people,  offer them closure in the only way there was to offer  loved ones of the bodies they could not even find,  or worse,  the pieces of those they did.  The people needed it,  needed something,  anything to ease the pain. 

It was a good idea and might help,  not perhaps lift spirits,  but offer that sense of closure they would not get otherwise. It was a good idea,  even a helpful one. 

Jim hated it.  Hated the idea of it,  hated the fact that he would have to lead it without getting sick all over some makeshift stage.  He felt his insides shaking at the very idea even if he could not see the shaking in his hands.  He was desperately good at controlling reactions like that,  at bottling up what he had to. 

He had agreed with Lucius,  of course,  of course,  because it was best for the people.  He agreed with Harvey that he should speak as,  even now,  he still held a strange sway over what was left of the Havenites,  which was precious few. But he was secretly begging anyone,  even though Oswald had essentially withdrawn that bounty he placed on Jim's head,  to just take the shot.

Not that part of him wasn't afraid to die,  but part of him would have been terribly relieved and gratified.  But he had too much to do,  of course,  such as getting justice for the fallen and atoning for yet again cheating death when it rightfully should have claimed him. 

Thus,  he sat in the crumbling remnants of his former hope for the city,  watching the stubborn bits of smoke that lingered to waft over the air.  Sitting there,  only a day and a half after the explosion, starring into space,  he felt so very numb even as he held the dirty reminder of his failure to keep a promise in his hand. 

The metal of his badge was warm where his fingers repeatedly rubbed at the new scratches in the surface of it.  Subconsciously he might have been trying to smooth them away to erase his sin.  His breath shook terribly on his exhale when he let his eyes fall on the silver shield.  It meant nothing in a forsaken island the mainland abandoned,  but he'd held onto it doggedly until he'd offered it as a token to his new young friend. 

Harvey kept telling him,  again and again,  that Jim gave the people hope,  that it had counted for something.  In the end,  he hardly saw how that mattered to anyone,  especially not the dead.  Harvey had been the rumpled angel on his shoulder even before Haven,  whispering encouragement as well as suggestions to sleep in Jim's ear,  and that had not changed.  He was almost mothering at this point,  causing Jim to wonder what might have happened if Harvey stayed with that girl and ran that bar.  He wondered too if Scottie was still alive or if he'd cost his partner that too. 

How had Harvey ever forgiven him?

The unstable gate,  the sound of a shuffle coming his way tipped him off to the fact that he was no longer alone. He'd also learned the sound of that walk years ago,  memorized it,  and could pick it out even if a cane or umbrella was not a side item.  The brace Oswald recently acquired  did not change it enough to keep him from recognizing the sound. 

"Have you found anything new?" Oswald asked as he closed the distance,  angling in at Jim's side. 

They both knew he hadn't,  both knew he had no idea why it happened or how to stop it from happening again but it was an opening question all the same. 

Jim took a moment,  afraid of what his voice might sound like when he answered,  and even then he only dared utter one word. "No."

Oswald's voice was very light, venturing, with a deliberate ease, "I heard tomorrow will bring a memorial held at the precinct for those who lost their lives in the explosion."

"Yes." Jim confirmed tightly. 

"I believe my people and myself will be in attendance,  if you don't mind? We can also act as something of a deterrent against any of the other gangs trying to cause problems during the ceremony."

"That's fine." Jim suddenly felt rather cold,  like the wind might have begun to blow in over the water. 

"Is it a black tie event or should we all strive for white tie?" Oswald persisted. 

"Whatever you like." Jim said. 

Oswald sighed in exasperation, "Are you actually listening to me? Or should I assume you actually want me to wear a tuxedo and carry a bazooka?"

Jim closed his eyes and let his chin fall to his chest.  He was too tired to be talking logistics with the Penguin.  His eyes felt so heavy, his fingers twitching with the desire to fall slack. 

"I suppose it would make a statement." Jim's addled brain finally offered. 

Oswald snorted slightly in a moderate laugh, "That it would." The former kingpin landed a tentative,  feather soft hand on Jim's shoulder, "How long has it been since you've slept?"

Jim had no idea,  so he simply redirected energy from speaking to shrugging. 

"Allow me to take you back to the GCPD,  my friend.  You need your rest."

"No." Jim said simply,  unable to explain how he dreaded the thought of sleep and dreams more than the burning of his dry eyes. 

"Jim." Oswald said his name like an admonishment. 

"I can't." Jim offered quickly,  his mind too cloudy to offer anything much better as he widened his eyes to keep them open. 

That hand on his shoulder began to rub, "You must." Oswald urged even as Jim's eyes crossed. "It's obvious you're exhausted."

"You been talking to Harvey?" Jim groused.

Oswald let go a chuckle at that,  something a little dark,  but genuine in amusement, "Perish the thought! However, I have the sense we might agree on this one subject,  if likely no other."

"You're both wrong,  I'm fine." Jim pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers,  squeezing his eyes shut to offer himself some relief from the stinging. 

"I beg to differ.  I'm never wrong." Oswald said. 

Jim could not muster up a laugh even though he wished he had it in him to try. It would have been simply too much,  more effort,  more energy than he had ready.  He felt lost, drained, sinking lower by the minute into something he wished he could surrender to. Oswald and Harvey always seemed to catch him when he'd hit rock bottom and was getting ready to sink down even farther into the sands of that dark ocean. 

His eyes snapped open again when he felt Oswald sit down on the slab of a former brick wall with him,  their arms touching in the proximity.  His eyes closed again,  more of their own will than a decision he made. His mind still more focused on what he would be forced to do,  the speech he would have to give in front of all the people he could not fulfill his promises to. 

"I'll be speaking at the ceremony." Jim said it like a confession. 

Oswald's response was quiet and simple, "I heard.  I'm sure you will do a fine job."

Jim found that doubtful. 

For several long minutes there was nothing but the silence and Jim nearly fell asleep right there.  Wakefulness came swift and harsh,  like a punch to the stomach that made him gasp. 

Oswald blinked rather owlishly at him,  head cocked to the side just like a bird,  the badge he had plucked from Jim's limp fingers resting innocently against the black leather of his fingerless gloves. 

Seeing Oswald hold it was almost terrifying because he wondered,  he really wondered,  if the badge itself wasn't cursed. 

Breathing became difficult,  and he gasped against the tight band constricting his chest. His heart beat a fast,  terrible drum inside him,  like madness seeping in. He could not explain why he could not breathe,  though there was the trained,  logical part of his brain that supplied the likelihood of him suffering the onset of a panic attack,  but he could not focus on rationality. 

Oswald seemed to panic with him, eyes wide as he immediately deposited the badge right back into Jim's hands as if that might fix the problem. 

Jim's jaw began to tremble, clicking his teeth together helplessly and his hands began to shake. He  could feel the world begin to spin and he did not resist when Oswald circled both arms around his shoulders,  holding him steady even as the world shook. 

He thought of that day the world exploded behind him,  how he'd picked himself up off the ground and let every single bit of training kick in to allow him to simply react as the good soldier he was.  Panicking had not been an option,  no one needed a panicked leader,  they needed one to take charge.  He could not even remember now which of his people he had shaken out of a stupor of shock,  but he wondered deliriously if he'd just been holding his own off until all the terror he pushed aside could come back to wreck him. 

Sweat had already begun to make his hands clammy, the hair on the back of his neck was damp and several strands of blond hair were stuck to his forehead but Oswald let him lay his head on the perfect tailoring at his shoulder anyway,  much as he had the last time Jim more or less lost his sanity over a memorial service. 

"It's going to be alright,  just breathe in slow,  Jim." Oswald crooned.

It was good advice if only Jim could flow it,  but he couldn't.  Each breath came faster than the next,  sharp and too shallow to be even close to what he needed.   His chest was burning,  and fluttering, and so tight. The closest he got to answering was a pitchy whine produced from his throat. 

Oswald tried to maneuver Jim's head down to put it between Jim's knees but he resisted,  to afraid he wouldn't be able to breathe at all if he moved.  He shook his head frantically but that only made him more dizzy and he clung to Oswald's jacket for dear life, burrowing closer as if it would protect him because he couldn't make it stop on his own. 

Oswald relented,  switching his hold to something more like a hug, "Shhh... it's going to be alright,  everything is going to be alright."

It was not long after that,  his head buried in the other man's neck,  that Jim found himself blacking out.  Maybe he passed out from exhaustion or maybe from the attack,  or even a combination of the two. He did not know much for sure,  only knew he was so tired,  so swept up in a black sort of nothing that felt too heavy to resist.  He could not move his arms and he forgot to even try to move his legs.  His body felt as if all the connecting writes to his brain had been cut,  leaving him aware of his body but unable to control it. 

It was not the first time he had felt the disconnect,  it had been there through many injuries,  many occasions he'd been drugged,  and he hated each time.  He was vulnerable in that state,  unable to snap awake as he usually would.  He was stranded in his own body and anyone could hurt him. 

Jim struggled desperately to speak but in the end,  he achieved nothing until he stopped trying,  and only then did his vocals produce a sound that was hardly human,  just foreign. It earned him a response though, a response of a hand petting his head. It  sent him under again,  almost instantly. 

It was strange then,  to filter back to awareness and realize he could move again,  had control of his body again.  The realization had him barreling into a sitting position,  hands clutching at the bedsheets around him before he'd even fully opened his eyes. 

"Easy there,  tiger!" Oswald chimed from across the room,  sounding oddly pleased as he looked at Jim from over his shoulder. 

Jim starred at him before he began to take stock of the rest of the room.  Just the sight of all the dark marble around him was indication enough of where he had ended up,  if the rest of the opulence did not give the citadel away, or the fact that the bed was considerably nicer than a cot.  It should have been more disconcerting to awaken not only outside the Green zone,  but in gang territory. 

If Oswald planned to kill him though,  he could have done so while he was helpless.  Also,  the white and tan bulldog panting happily at him from the foot of the bed just lacked the general sense of menace pending doom usually would. 

Jim had to ask anyway, "Why did you bring me here?"

Oswald turned from what decidedly looked like a mound of jewels he was examining so he could properly emphasize the expression of incredulity to Jim with that arched brow, "You mean you wanted to let them see their knight in shining armor in that state rather than continue to let them only see a Bastian of strength?"

That felt like a blow, a lash from a whip,  and Jim lay back down,  turning over onto his side to face away from the other man.  He noticed his badge then,  the silver shined up and lacking the dirt it sported the last time he had seen it.  The sight of it made him curl in on himself,  knees almost to his chest as he studied the sheets instead. 

Oswald sighed from his end of the room and hobbled over,  coming around to Jim's side of the bed.  He sat down,  hand falling to rest over Jim's ankles and rub at the bone though the blanket.  The dog,  seeming to decide it was the clear thing to do,  waggled over behind Jim and settled a thick chin on his head.  Oswald smirked at what must have been a truly ridiculous sight. 

"I suppose you plan to drool in my hair?" Jim asked Edward,  not expecting an answer,  but the dog huffed at him as if it knew the question had been aimed at him. 

Oswald leaned over in order to pet the dog's head,  putting pressure on Jim's head by proxy for the duration. "He must like you."

"I bet he likes everyone." Jim muttered. 

When the dog wiggled farther up until his chest was resting on Jim's head and his face was ensconced in stubby dog legs,  Oswald took pity on him.  He patted the bed and Edward left Jim only to perch anew over his feet where he was in perfect range to be pet by his owner. 

They fell into silence,  Oswald petting the dog,  and Jim starring into space. It was not exactly uncomfortable but it was silence all the same. 

Jim was the one to break it, "I promised to keep them safe."

Oswald said nothing,  probably waiting Jim out,  which did work. 

"I promised him that no one would ever hurt him again. I wanted... to believe I could protect him. That brave little boy..." his voice cracked,  forcing him to clear his throat, "he'd already been through so much.  He didn't deserve that! Oswald,  he didn't deserve that..."

There was a slight glassy look to the mobster's eyes until he blinked swiftly, "Will was a remarkable lad,  he deserved to grow up and live happily ever after... but life doesn't always do what it should."

"I kept hoping he survived at first but once they found my shield, I knew he was gone. I gave him my badge just before it happened." Jim said.

Oswald's eyes instantly flew the the nightstand, to the newly polished silver and sadness crept up into his expression.

"I told them that we won,  that things were going to get better.  Some of them actually believed me.  And I wanted to be telling the truth.  Deep down I secretly knew,  no matter how many times I begged,  no one was coming to help us. But I kept telling them all, hinting that if we just held on long enough things would be fine. I wanted to believe there was hope even though I knew there wasn't. 

"I knew we couldn't keep it up forever,  that none of us would make it,  that we're all... dying slowly.  I wanted to believe I could offer them something other than a short time of peace before they died; I wanted to believe it could make a difference... that holding on might let me save some of them even if saving all of them wasn't... plausible. All my pretty words don't mean much when even I don't believe them though,  do they?"

"Jim,  we've all just been... holding on. We've all been doing the same."

"Not you.  You never pretended anyone was coming,  you have been realistic from the beginning. You never expected help to swoop in,  you knew all along we were on our own and you embraced it." Jim offered,  slightly bitter,  but not enough to bite into the words. "Built off of what existed,  not what could be." 

Oswald seemed suddenly tired, "A lack of faith on my part doesn't mean it's wrong to offer hope to others, or to hope yourself. I may be both an opportunist and a realist but that doesn't mean I don't hope to be proven wrong.  Your faith in what might be is what offers a light to the rest of us... just like that light you turn on every night.  Whether we agree with you or not,  believe in knights in shining armor,  or otherwise... what you created offered us all a bit of light. 

"Without you and the Green zone,  the thought that someone out there will still fight, people might just give up entirely. We need bullets and guns,  realism,  practicality, yes... but we need light,  dreams,  and hope for something better too.  Don't you remember what I said almost at the beginning? You're light and I'm darkness,  and we need each other.  Each of us serves a purpose,  has a place here. It's balance."

"What good does that do now? They're all dead,  everything is gone." Jim muttered, forlorn.

Oswald massaged Jim's ankle again, "Not everyone. We lost a great many,  but not all of them.  There are still some left that need your help."

"Do you think we can make it,  Oswald?" Jim asked earnestly. 

"James Gordon, " Oswald admonished, "you are the singularly most stubborn man I have ever met in my life!  If anyone can make the mainland listen,  if anyone can pull it off,  it's undoubtedly you! And... I'll help you till then,  we can keep together what is left."

Jim closed his eyes for a minute,  not meaning to fall asleep,  not aware he had until he opened his eyes again to find the windows dark and nothing but one lamp on in the room.  Oswald was reading something in the light of the lamp while his dog snored into Jim's shoulder. 

"Why did you let me fall asleep?" Jim rubbed his eyes,  still shockingly tired in a body more than willing to sleep longer.

"Because you're half dead,  Jim." Oswald replied,  only seeming to pay mild attention. "You can't be Gotham's hero if you pass out on whatever podium they stand you on in the morning."

"I'm hardly the hero anymore." Jim's vice was low with sleep. 

Oswald looked up,  almost predatory, " Be careful,  Jim. If you aren't their hero, I will be.  You better decide which of us you want them to look to."

Jim was taken back by the shift in Oswald,  the dark fire in his eyes,  and he wondered when Oswald had left and Penguin took his place, "What is that supposed to mean?"

Penguin leaned forward,  elbows resting on the desk, "It means,  step up. I will usurp you if you don't.  I'd rather work with you,  but if you won't play,  I'll have little choice."

Jim was too tired to follow along with the change in the mobster from when he fell asleep to when he woke. "If that's a hint to get out of your bed so you can get your beauty sleep, I get it.  I'm going. "

The badge slipped easily onto it's usual place on his belt as he crawled out of bed.  He hit a snag when he resized he did not have any idea where his shoes were. 

"By the door." Oswald,  ever the clairvoyant. 

"Thanks." Jim tried not to snap. 

Edward was still sleeping, flopped upside down, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.  He looked so content and happy it might have made Jim smile if he were just a hint happier himself, but he could not smile just now. Jim impulsively flicked the blanket over his stubby body before he padded over to the door in his socks. 

"Jim," Oswald sounded softer again,  less snappish, "let me take you back to the Green zone.  It's dark out,  you will need the use of the car if you want to get there alive."

Jim shot the man an incredulous look, "Because they won't notice headlights more than one man walking?"

"True.  Perhaps,  if you wish to live,  you should stay here."

Jim snorted, "I don't see a couch,  and I'd be terrified if I deprived you of your beauty sleep."

"I would sleep in my own room,  you dolt!" Oswald hissed, "This isn't my room, I was only working in here to be sure you didn't suddenly expire unexpectedly so I could dump your body promptly should the need arise."

Jim found it in himself to chuckle and it surprise him,  though it might jade been gallows humor, "Yeah? Then who's room is this?"

Oswald's face soured, his lips puckering like he'd eaten a lemon, "My former chef of staff... but as Mr. Penn no longer has need of it,  you might as well use it."

Jim took in a long breath through his nose and let it out, "I'm sorry about Penn."

The tightness in Oswald unwound just a notch, "I'm sorry about Will Thomas."

Jim turned away and put on his shoes, "I'll be fine. I can find my way back easily enough.  It's not the first time I've gone out."

"I wish you would reconsider that,  my friend.  It's far from friendly outside my walls.  Besides,  the bed is not currently filled here as I'm sure is not the case where you're headed."

"Thank you for helping me,  but I can't stay away any longer." Jim admitted, "Harvey and Lucius might think I was in danger and do something stupid,  like look for me."

"Well,  we can't have that, I suppose." Oswald agreed,  though he sounded far from worried. 

Jim made to head out the door but stopped when Oswald called to him.  He turned around to face the man again and after a long few minutes of starring at each other he said; "You'll be marvelous tomorrow. I have no doubt you'll have them eating from your hand. We all do what we must in these times."

After the words of encouragement,  he promptly threw one full clip,  then another at Jim.  Once he'd caught both,  he gave them a glance,  not particularly surprised they were the right caliber for the gun in his holster. 

"For the trip back." The gangster told him simply before he retreated into the next room, leaving Jim alone to do the same. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is still therapy for me as I deal with my own memorial experience. I write as therapy, I really do.

**Author's Note:**

> Family gatherings are hard. I thought Jim deserved to have a shoulder to cry on after what he'd been through. Because, just one of those things on their own are enough to mentally ruin a person for a long time! Like being buried alive! Watching his uncle shoot himself! That's intense life therapy right there but he just keeps pretending he's totally fine.
> 
> Also, if something like this happened, if they'd bothered to talk to each other rather then at each other, maybe Jim would have had the forethought not to go to Falcone. Would have considered that going to Falcone would be a fatal mistake. Sofia might still have come to get revenge, probably would have, actually. But I never understood how Jim ever thought that could go well.


End file.
